Death Row Breakout Read Online Free PDF Page B

in two years of representing indigent criminal defendants, nearly all of whom were guilty – a truth he silently accepted after a few months of being a public defender. He had no heart for prosecuting, but he was about ready to go into private practice. If he was going to represent guilty criminals, he might as well do it for those who could pay. Some of his charges he found admirable in many ways. As for the young colored man he was talking to, he saw what had happened and was sure the court would be lenient. He was unaware, however, that Booker had subsequently broken one deputy’s jaw and damaged others.
    “Here’s how it is,” the young lawyer said, “if you go to trial, you’ll be in jail for another three or four months, even if they find you innocent. That might happen. It’s a long-shot, but you didn’t really have the
intent
to steal. A jury might be sympathetic. I would expect them to find you guilty – on what you’ve told me and what the testimony was.
    “If you plead guilty to a joyriding, taking a car without the owner’s permission, the judge can decide it’s a misdemeanor instead of a felony. Joyriding goes both ways. We’ll sure argue that, and the DA might not even oppose it.
    “You don’t have any record. You’ll have been in jail for over a month. You’ve got a job… you live with your family –”
    “Just my mother –” Booker corrected.
    The lawyer nodded that he got it, and then continued with his pitch: “I can’t imagine you getting anything but time served and probation. Or sixty days if the judge had a bad night.”
    Booker was dubious. Without any prior experience and totally unsophisticated about the world, he was sure the rebellion against the deputies would be somewhere in the equation. Yet the young white lawyer seemed to know what he was talking about. He was an educated man. He was a lawyer. So Booker trusted that the words were sincere. Yet he was also part of the white establishment, and Booker didn’t trust him enough – not in one twenty-minute meeting – to tell him about the deputy.
    Besides, Booker had thought about it in Siberia, especially after the preliminary hearing, and had decided to plead guilty to get it over with. White folks had him T-rolled and there was nothing he could do – but this made it easy and firmed up the decision.
    He told the public defender that he would plead guilty in the Superior Court.
    The Public Defender made a note in the folder so any lawyer from the public defender’s office, who would never know his face, knew the posture of the case. He would waive and stipulate as good as anyone.
    So when the Judge asked, “How do you plead?” Booker answered: “Guilty, Your Honor.” The public defender patted him on the arm, as if he’d done a wise thing. He was not the same public defender who had visited him – and the public defender who stood beside him at Judgment and Sentence was different from the one at the plea. The Judge turned the pages provided by the probation department, and when he looked over the tops of his glasses at Booker, his face was stern. “I sentence you to the California State Prison for the term prescribed by law, to be remanded into the custody of the Sheriff of Los Angeles County, for his delivery to the Warden of San Quentin…”
    After that, wherever Booker went in the jail, he met ex-convicts, men who had previously journeyed north to sojourn in the legendary San Quentin. When he told them of his crime and sentence, they were incredulous. “I never heard of that… no record… no nuthin’… first time arrested… for
borrowin
’ a car –”
    “It was a joyridin’. I didn’t tell the boss ‘forehand.”
    “Yeah… shit… but goddamn! The joint right out of the box.”
    “So how much time will I do?”
    “They don’t never let anybody out in less’n a year. They say they ne’er woulda got sent to Quentin if the judge wanted ’em to serve less’n a year. You should do fifteen…